A rousing one-two-three awaits — Long Shot tonight (finally!), Avengers Endgame tomorrow afternoon on the Disney lot (maybe not so rousing), and then Booksmart on Wednesday evening.

My attention is divided right now between tapping out stories and trying to figure out which HDMI cables belong in which receptacles, and what the hell seems to be wrong with my big, fat Marantz AVR — by far the heaviest, biggest component. The audio-visual sources are (a) a 4K Roku player, (b) a 4K Apple TV, (c) a 4K Samsung Bluray player, (4) a pipsqueak Sony 4K Bluray player and (5) the cable TV hook-up. The problem is that there are only four (4) HDMI receptacles on the TV. (Maybe if I ditch the Roku player and just use the Apple TV?) I figured this out before — I don’t know what my problem is this time. Half of me hates struggling with this stuff; the other half derives profound satisfaction from getting it right.

Hugs and condolences to friends and colleagues of Anonymous Content founder and producer Steve Golin, who passed yesterday from cancer at age 64. Obviously way too young, but a life well lived.
How else to describe a guy who produced or significantly assisted Spotlight, The Revenant, Babel, Beasts of No Nation, Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far on Foot, Boy Erased, Being John Malkovich, The Game, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, et. al.?

Only in the 21st Century film industry can you say with a straight face that a departed professional was “burdened with good taste,” but that was Golin for you. Inexorably drawn to quality-level projects, constitutionally incapable of producing crap and always with the reddish complexion, no hair to speak of, squinty eyes and grubby salt-and-pepper whiskers, Golin lugged good taste around like a bent-over mail carrier…like Charles Bukowski in the ’50s. But he never backed off, and producing ambitious, first-rate, critically hailed films was also his pride and levitation.

Steve’s big hallelujah moment happened in early ’16 when Spotlight won the Best Picture Oscar.

I last ran into Steve at the 2015 Middleburg Film Festival, when he was repping and taking bows for The Revenant and Spotlight. We talked for 35 or 40 minutes in a shuttle van between Dulles and Middleburg. He was a hustler, of course, like any good producer, but he seemed to really understand and believe in the transformative power of great filmmaking.

The film industry could use a lot more Steve Golins, and now it has one less.

Sorry for bailing after yesterday’s Apocalypse Now: Final Cut post, but a sizable load of stuff from back east (motorcycle, big TV, boxes, glass-framed photos) arrived yesterday afternoon around 3 pm, and there was a lot to unpack. Hours and hours. I was telling myself, “This is your chance to finally arrange the Blurays in alphabetical order. You just have to summon the discipline…just a little extra effort.” Did I do this? Of course not.

Only days before next weekend’s Tribeca Film Festival showing of the 4K Apocalypse Now: Final Cut, the running time has been changed on the TFF website. Before this turnaround the length of this restored version of Francis Coppola‘s 1979 war classic was listed as 147 minutes; now it’s 183 minutes. Yeah!

TFF spokesperson Tammie Rosen informs that “we had the wrong time on the site, but once we received the final forms we updated. No different than any other film. Simple as that.”

The bad guy in this misadventure is Coppola’s archivist James Mockowski, whom I reached out to last month upon the advice of Telluride Film festival founder Tom Luddy. I asked Mockowski twice — once in March, again in early April — if he could please tell me what the Final Cut running time is, or if it’s just a tech upgrade thing. Silencio. Nine years ago I asked Mockowski for help on a technical matter regarding George Hickenlooper‘s Hearts of Darkness — same result. The man is a hider, an obfuscater, a mouse.

So I deferred to Rosen and the TFF website, which announced the 147-minute running time. I sensed a disturbance in the force so I grabbed a screen capture of the earlier Tribeca posting — glad I did this.

Currently:

Earlier this month:

A trusted industry friend told me a while back that according to his understanding Final Cut was an in-betweener — a split-the-difference version that lies between the pit of man’s fears…no, that lies between the original 147-minute version and the 202-minute Redux version. 183 minutes means Final Cut is 19 minutes shorter than the 202-minute Redux and 36 minutes longer than the original 70mm Ziegfeld version that ran 147 minutes. So Final Cut will include the French plantation sequence — just not as much. And the rescuing the Playboy bunnies sequence — just not as much. And so on.

Rosen emphasizes that the bad information wasn’t deliberate, and that this kind of thing happens all the time. The apparent bottom line is that Mockowski and Coppola live in their own solar system, and that somebody finally pointed out to them, “Hey, guys…the Tribeca Film Festival website is saying that Final Cut runs 147 minutes, or 36 minutes shorter than the actual length. Don’t you think you should wise them up?”

Rosen reminds that all along TFF has emphasized the Final Cut title, but if you read their copy there was never a mention of a longer running time. In fact, TFF’s primary descriptive emphasis was on technical restoration upgrades:

Consider: “Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now will celebrate its 40th Anniversary at the Festival with a screening of a new, never-before-seen restored version of the film, entitled Apocalypse Now: Final Cut, remastered from the original negative in 4K Ultra HD.” HE interpretation: In other words, no one has ever seen this 4K restored version, even though it’s just a remastering of the original negative that produced the original 147-minute 70mm version.

More TFF: “The Beacon Theatre will be outfitted for this exclusive occasion with Meyer Sound VLFC (Very Low Frequency Control), a ground-breaking loudspeaker system engineered to output audio frequencies below the limits of human hearing, giving the audience a truly visceral experience. In addition, the film has been enhanced with Dolby Vision®, delivering spectacular colors and highlights that are up to 40 times brighter and blacks that are 10 times darker, and Dolby Atmos, producing moving audio that flows all around you with breathtaking realism.” HE interpretation: Tech, tech, tech, tech, tech.

I’m almost afraid to watch The Matrix again for fear that it won’t hold up. The double-whammy of Matrix Reloaded and Matrix Revolutions was so devastating, and my initial reaction to the original was so positive…just call me superstitious. Perhaps I’d best leave well enough alone, let sleeping dogs lie, etc.

Okay, I’ll risk it: has anyone recently re-watched The Matrix? If it doesn’t play as well, I almost don’t want to know.

“Shoulda Quit When They Were Ahead,” posted on 4.1.14.

“You know, I think I understand what you’re like now. You’re very beautiful and you think men are only interested in you because you’re beautiful. And you want them to be interested in you because of you. But the problem is that aside from your being beautiful, you’re not very interesting. You’re rude, you’re hostile, you’re sullen, you’re withdrawn. I understand that you want someone to see past all that to the real person underneath. But the only reason anyone would bother to look past all that is because you’re beautiful. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Not Jim Harrison, I’m guessing, because he’s not exactly known for writing sharp zingers or stingers or whatever you want to call this kind of dialogue. (I hung out with Harrison one night in ’96, at the Los Angeles premiere of Carried Away.) And probably not Elaine May, because it doesn’t have that neurotic, New York-y, Elaine May-ish seasoning. It feels like more of a guy-written thing, but maybe not. A little voice is telling me it’s not Wesley Strick either. I don’t know anything.

With its frequent descent into a jet-black palette and all kinds of shadowy gradation, Alan Pakula‘s Klute (’71) is a prime candidate for a 4K re-viewing. Not to suggest that Criterion’s forthcoming 1080p Bluray (7.16) won’t look great or that it isn’t worth the price, but an actual 4K Bluray would be that much better. Alas, Criterion doesn’t do those. The copy promises a “new, restored 4K digital transfer, supervised by camera operator Michael Chapman, with uncompressed monaural soundtrack.”

Posted on 7.24.14: “I haven’t seen Alan Pakula‘s Klute (’71) since…well, I might have watched it on laser disc in the ’90s or at a repertory cinema in the early ’80s…maybe. But I haven’t seen it on a big screen in eons. Slow burn whodunit + ’70s Manhattan + richly-drawn characters + wide-open emotional exposure + simmering sexuality. Plus a wonderfully inky, occasionally spooky vibe care of dp Gordon Willis (i.e., the Prince of Darkness)

The horrific Columbine high-school massacre happened exactly 20 years ago. It hit like a grenade, of course, and knocked the culture on its heels. And of course we all know the epitaph, which is that (a) mass killings (schools, workplace, bars) have since become commonplace, and (b) rightwing lunatics have refused to allow legislators to do anything about restricting easy access to automatic weapons. Our latest Columbine happened 14 months ago in southern Florida, and the after-shocks are still humming as we speak.

Before Columbine happened I was locked into attending a three-day Stars Wars Celebration in Denver (4.30 thru 5.2), which was basically about hyping The Phantom Menace, which would open a couple of weeks later. The event was funded by LucasArts and organized by Dan Madsen, head of the Star Wars Fan Club, and held at the Wings Over the Rockies Air and Space Museum.

The Denver weather was chilly and rainy almost the entire time. The descriptive term was miserable, but as a twice-weekly, Johnny-on-the-spot columnist for Mr. Showbiz I felt it was very important to absorb and report on the new fervor among the Star Wars faithful. The unseen Phantom Menace was a hyuuge deal at the time; it was universally derided, of course, once it was seen.

Here are two columns on the Denver Star Wars event — “Fandom Penance” and “Fandom Penance, Episode II“. Thanks to HE reader “Ugly Red Honda” for forwarding.

On the second or third day I was sick of the fanboys and needed a shot of reality. So I got into my rental car and drove down to Littleton, Colorado and parked near the grounds of Columbine High School.

It was still godawful cold and rainy and muddy everywhere. I basically walked around and took snaps and sniffed the air. I just wanted to feel it, taste it. There were other visitors (even a couple of families) poking around. I recall climbing up a slight hill or incline near the school where little memorials for each slain student had been planted in the ground.

My Mr. Showbiz editor didn’t allow me to write about visits to Columbine or any non-movie-related excursion, or I would’ve done so.

Rochefort : I failed. One does occasionally.
Cardinal Richelieu: If I blundered as you do, my head would fall.
Rochefort: I would say from a greater height than mine, Eminence.
Cardinal Richelieu: You would?
Rochefort: The height of vaulting ambition.
Cardinal Richelieu (quickly): You have none?
Rochefort: No.
Cardinal Richelieu (beat, sizing up): Do you fear me, Rochefort?
Rochefort: Yes, I fear you, Eminence. I also…hate you.
Cardinal Richelieu: I love you, my son. Even when you fail.

The tragic but affecting story of Franz Jagerstatter is basically that of an Austrian farmer, spiritual seeker and pacifist who sacrificed his life for his convictions. He was drafted into the German army in 1940, but ultimately refused to fight on conscientious objector grounds. He was charged with an “undermining of military morale” and executed (beheaded) in mid 1943. In 2007 Pope Benedict XVI issued an “apostolic exhortation,” declaring Jägerstätter a martyr.

For what it’s worth, a 1971 film about Jagerstatter, titled “The Refusal“, ran only 94 minutes. We can probably safely presume that Malick’s version is a grander, deeper, more penetrating depiction than this 48 year-old film, but you can’t help but furrow your brow and wonder about the 180-minute running time.

Knowing Malick as I do and the fact that principal photography ended sometime in late August 2016, the first suspicion (or fear) that comes to mind is “sprawling,” the second is “precious,” the third is “whispery”, the fourth is “dandelion fuzz” and the fifth, obviously, is “indulgent.” But maybe not.

“Sam (Andrew Garfield) is 33 years old, unemployed and counting down the days to eviction from his apartment. [His] sense of belatedness feels secondhand. He’s a GenX sensibility trapped in a millennial body, with the tastes and obsessions to match. (Director David Robert Mitchell, it’s worth pointing out, is 44 years old).

“R.E.M. called irony ‘the shackles of youth,’ and Sam drags it around like a Styrofoam ball and chain. Like other guys his age, he feels oppressed by an older generation of guys who lay claim to all the credit, the money, the art and the women, while he is left with a literal and spiritual pile of junk that may not mean what he hoped it would. The movie turns his resentment into a cosmic joke.

“Look, I’ve been there. But I can’t say I sympathize, because there’s no basis for sympathy.

“Under the Silver Lake is less a cinematic folly than a category mistake, taking the sterility of its own imaginative conceits for a metaphysical condition. It isn’t a critique of aesthetic or romantic ennui, but an example of intellectual timidity. As a Los Angeles movie it lacks the rough, naturalistic edge of La La Land, and it thinks it’s so much cooler than La La Land.” — from A.O. Scott‘s 4.17 N.Y. Times review of Under The Silver Lake.

Almost everyone hated David Robert Mitchell‘s Under The Silver Lake when it played at last year’s Cannes Film Festival. It was soon after reported that A24’s original 6.22 release date had been scuttled in favor of a 12.7.18 opening. That too was abandoned. Mitchell’s meandering noir is finally opening today, but without any cuts at all to the original 139-minute length. The thinking last summer was that A24 had almost certainly asked Mitchell to go back to the editing room and tighten things up, and perhaps even do a little re-shooting. Nope.

Original HE review, titled “Mitchell’s Wandering Fartscape“, posted on 5.16.18:

I’m sorry but David Robert Mitchell‘s Under The Silver Lake (A24, 6.22) is mostly a floundering, incoherent mess. Yeah, I know — Mitchell wanted it to feel this way, right? Ironically, I mean. Confusion and mental haziness are part of the impressionistic thrust.

It’s pretty much a textbook example of what happens when a gifted, financially successful director without much on his mind…this is what happens when such a fellow comes to believe that he’s a version of Federico Fellini in the wake of La Dolce Vita or 8 1/2 and thereby obtains the funds to make whatever the hell he wants, and so he decides to create…uhm, well let’s try an impressionistic fantasia dreamtrip about L.A. hipster weirdness and…you know, dreamy fantasy women with nice breasts and impressionistic effluvia and whatever-the-fuck-else.

Two hours and 15 minutes of infuriating slacker nothingness…everyone’s vaguely confused, nobody really knows anything, all kinds of clues and hints about seemingly impenetrable conspiracies involving general L.A. space-case culture, bodies of dead dogs, cults, riddles and obsessions of the super-rich.

It’s basically about Andrew Garfield absolutely refusing to deal with paying his overdue rent, and neighbor Riley Keough, whom he tries to find throughout the film after she disappears early on, doing a late-career Marilyn Monroe with maybe a touch of Gloria Grahame in In A Lonely Place.

Under The Silver Lake is Mulholland Drive meets Fellini Satyricon meets Inherent Vice meets The Big Lebowski, except Lebowski, bleary-eyed stoner comedy that it was, was far more logical and witty and tied together, and with an actual through-line you could more or less follow.

I felt the same kind of where-the-fuck-is-this-movie-going? confusion that I got from Paul Thomas Anderson‘s adaptation of Thomas Pynchon‘s novel of the late ’60s.